


Seven Winds

by MaidenMotherCrone (brandizzle93)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Ambition, F/M, POV Female Character, Slytherin Hermione Granger, can't promise i won't kill people, probably happy ending?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-05-30 20:49:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15104606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandizzle93/pseuds/MaidenMotherCrone
Summary: Roslin had just turned ten and five when her dreams began to change. By that time, Roslin had come to the conclusion that they were not just dreams – it was a life. Her life. That she had lived before, somehow. She was sure of it. Despite her certainty, Roslin never said a word to anyone. The Seven said nothing about living and then living again, after all.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note:
> 
> So I saw this prompt from MiHnn's work: :  
> Hermione never believed in reincarnation, and if she had, she never would have imagined her soul being shuffled off to another world/universe/dimension. Around hitting puberty in her new life, her memories of her old life begin to return to her – as do her magical abilities.
> 
> Then this came out and well, you know. Hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think.

 

 

**Chapter One**

 

.

.

 

Her name was Roslin. She was Roslin Frey, daughter of Lord Walder Frey and his sixth wife, Bethany Rosby. She was nine. Her lord father was lecherous and bitter, and ancient besides and her lady mother was dead in the ground.  She had many siblings and many nieces and nephews.

 

Sometimes she would repeat the thought over and over, a mantra that would remind her of her reality. It would remind her that Roslin really _was_ her name. The miserable old man she lived with really _was_ her lord father. The wide array of faces that inhabited her father’s castle – most so different than her own – really _were_ her blood.

 

It never felt right, though. Not one bit of it.

 

Roslin was _not_ her name. This she knew. Her name was something different – something strange to say, to wrap her tongue around. Sometimes she felt as though it was _right there_ , as if she could reach out and grasp it, but then it would fall away from her like sand would from between her fingers.

 

Lord Frey was _not_ her father. Sometimes she would have flashes of someone else, a kind man with an easy smile and very straight, white teeth. Sometimes she would catch a scent of lemon and his face would swim across her mind.

 

Roslin had never met her lady mother, at least not that she remembered. Her lord father had been married to her for seven years before she died, and she had given him five children – her four older brothers and herself. Her lord father always said that she had been his most beautiful wife and he had a portrait made of her to commemorate such luck. Roslin would often look upon it. She saw a lot of herself in the portrait of the strange woman – but still this did not seem quite right. Still Roslin had flashes of another woman – a woman that had _lived_ and had nurtured, who looked similar, perhaps a little less beautiful of the face than her lady mother’s portrait, but _wilder_ with a vast head of curly locks, a wide smile and light brown eyes that always danced.

 

She was one and ten when she really began to _dream_ instead of these odd flashes, and these dreams were even stranger – she saw things that never could be possible. A beautiful castle, much grander than the one she dwelled in currently, with a Great Hall that had a ceiling of candles and sky. It had staircases that moved, rooms that would change to whatever was your heart’s desire, and portraits that moved and even _spoke_.

 

  
As the years passed, these odd feelings and visions grew more intense and reality seemed to curve and shift around her, even to her waking eyes. In her dreams she was _powerful_ and intelligent and she could do things that Roslin could only name as _magic_ – brewing potions that allowed one to literally _breathe_ fire, like the dragons of old or conjuring a flock of finches that flew above her and sang as she wished them to. But who was she, to dream such dreams? A daughter born to a sixth wife, a girl with a rudimentary education at best. Her lord father was Lord of the Crossing, but she had no such claim to speak of.

 

It did not matter that she had knowledge that she had no business knowing – words of the Common Tongue written on parchment, maths and figures that far surpassed the understanding of even their own Maester, what plants would heal and which ones would cause ill. If she had been born male, her knowledge and her desperate desire to be _more_ than breeding stock might have served her well. She could go to Oldtown and work to join the Order of Maesters and use her knowledge. Perhaps she could even get a chain link of Valyrian Steel – the high magicks.

 

Sometimes she cursed the Gods. Out of all the children her lady mother had borne her lord father, Roslin had been the only girl – and the one that had killed her, as her lord father was wont to remind her. He told her that all she was good for was her pretty face and the wet little hole between her legs. Roslin couldn’t stand when Lord Frey spoke to her, his ancient voice like a thousand snakes crawling over her skin and his beady little eyes eyeing her flesh as a father should not a daughter. She went out of her way to avoid her lord father, appearing before him only when specifically called upon.

 

 

. … .

 

 

Roslin had just turned ten and five when her dreams began to change. By that time, Roslin had come to the conclusion that they were not just dreams – it was a life. _Her_ life. That she had lived before, somehow. She was sure of it. Despite her certainty, Roslin never said a word to anyone. The Seven said nothing about living and then living _again_. It was heresy – she would be labeled a witch and her father would cast her out, like as not.

 

One night she dreamed that she was running. Not running to get somewhere quickly, as if she were delivering a message. Nor was it for sport, though the two boys - who she knew to be her best friends, Harry and Ron, having dreamt of them often through the years - ran with her through this strange forest she found herself in.

 

Roslin ran with _fear_. A deep, instinctual fear - the kind of prey. The predators were _people_. She was being hunted by _men_. She knew that there was no escape; no matter how fast they ran their pursuers would catch them and haul them up like animals before delivering them to the dark.

 

Roslin knew that Harry was in the most danger – though she didn’t exactly know why. She knew that she had to hide who he was, and so she raised her hand, fingers wrapped around some sort of stick. She spoke a word and light erupted from the end of her stick and struck her friend in the face. He fell to the ground, groaning in pain.

 

  
The dream shifted and she was in a magnificent room, a crystal light hanging above her as her back dug painfully into the cold, stone floor beneath her. It was so cold that it seemed to leach into her very bones, as if warmth had been a figment of her imagination all her life. Pain was everywhere - her stomach, her shoulders and her head. There was a woman with a face of shadows there and she was screaming at Roslin, demanding answers for things that Roslin didn't understand. The woman would raise the stick at her and the pain would come again and again.

 

Then the woman of shadows was above her, a deadly blade in her hand. She held Roslin down before she began to _carve_ at her arm and Roslin screamed and screamed - the blade was made of _fire_ and there was blood, so much _blood_ and –

 

“Roslin! Roslin, wake up!”

 

Rough hands shook her and Roslin’s eyes flew open, her scream dying in her throat. Her half-sister Tyta stood above her, looking incredibly annoyed. Tyta was daughter of their lord father through his fifth wife, Alyssa Blackwood. They called her Tyta the Maid, because though she was nearing her thirtieth name day she had never married. Roslin had heard rumors that Black Walder had had her, however, despite her infamous title. It was not surprising, really – Black Walder had had most of the unmarried women in her family at some point or another, along with several married ones.

 

“You're waking the whole damn castle with your screaming,” Tyta snapped, eying Roslin with malice.

 

“I'm sorry,” was all Roslin could manage, her heart still racing wildly from the dream. She threw back her coverlet to stand and gasped – her night clothes were covered in blood, warm and sticky between her thighs. She remembered the blood from her dream, her stomach cramping reflexively from the memory. Fearful tears slid down her face as she panicked, her eyes unable to tear away from the gruesome sight.

 

“Oh, you've _ruined_ the blanket! What a mess,” Tyta exclaimed when she saw the blood. “What're you sniveling about? Stupid cow. It's just your moon’s blood,” she sneered, rolling her eyes. “Clean yourself up, find a servant to make your bed,” Tyta told her, slowly as one would a child. “And _don't_ wake me up again,” her half-sister warned, before leaving her to her thoughts.

 

Roslin cried again when Tyta left, her chest tight with fear and confusion. She looked at her left arm and saw nothing, no indication that she had been cut. But it throbbed painfully, in time with the cramps in her belly.

 

 

. … .

 

 

The next morning her lord father called her before him, looking her up and down in appraisal. Roslin was nervous, for when she walked into the hall it was empty, other than the two guards at the door.  She curtsied before him politely, as her septa had taught her to do when in audience with her father. The last time he had really spoken to her was three turns past, when he had grumpily asked her, in a room full of people, when she would finally bleed.

 

“Get closer, girl. These eyes are old, I can barely see you,” her father breathed in his oily voice. Roslin fought to disguise her disgust – she knew that he could see just fine, despite the fact that he was ancient. He often exaggerated his infirmity when it suited his need – now was apparently one of those times. Roslin kept her face carefully trained as she drew closer to her lord father, her spine stiff and her chin set. She stopped about five passes in front of him, dipping into another curtsy before she stood again, uncomfortable and wishing she were anywhere else. Her lord father observed her again, his eyes trailing up and down her form slowly. Roslin fought the urge to shudder, not wishing to give her father any satisfaction in her response to him.

 

She took a chance to observe her lord father as he observed her – he had always reminded her of someone, someone she had known in her previous life. No matter how hard she tried to remember she couldn’t, although she had a sense that she had not liked him then, either. He was ancient; his skin weathered and thin, both stretched thin in some places and hanging loose in others. He was balding but the few strands of hair he did have hung long and stringy past his shoulders, and age spots dotted the top of his oily head. He had lost all of his teeth but a handful, which had caused his mouth to recede deep into his face. He constantly worked his jaw like a babe at the breast, smacking and sucking loudly. Roslin quickly looked away, staring at a place near his feet – openly showing her revolution would get her no favors from her lord father.

 

“A girl that bleeds is a girl fitted to be wedded and bedded, daughter,” he eyed her closer, as if examining a blade for war. “However, you are one the fruits that hangs higher than others on my tree. You’re just as sweet as your mother before you. I bred her every year I had her, you know,” he went on conversationally, “I was bound and determined to get a daughter on her – sons I have in abundance, beautiful daughters not so,” her lord father laughed, a low hackle that went on to cause a burst of coughing.

 

Roslin stood impassively, waiting for the fit to pass, doing her best to not outwardly show how much it bothered her for him to talk about her lady mother like she had been some prized broodmare. Perwyn, her mother’s eldest son, had told her that their lord father had kept their mother constantly pregnant despite how difficult pregnancies were on her.  It had really been no surprise that she had passed shortly after Roslin’s birth, Perwyn told her, as her final pregnancy had been the most trying, with her barely able to get out of bed the last couple moons before her birth.

 

Behind her, a servant entered the hall. The older woman approached humbly towards her father, carrying a chalice of wine and a wineskin. She curtsied before approaching her father, standing within reach for him to take the glass. Her lord father definitely loved his wine, if naught much else.

 

Finally the fit subsided and her lord father spoke again, “If it is the last thing I do, I will marry you into a Great House, daughter – there will be no minor houses in your future. Perhaps you will be the Lady of Riverrun. I hear that Edmure Tully has not taken a bride yet, though he’s well on his way to having as many bastards as I do,” at this her father smiled and Roslin felt her lip curl infinitesimally, out of her control as her disgust reached new heights.

 

Her father seemed to catch it and started laughing and coughing once more, “You even have your mother’s expressions – oh, she was disgusted by me as well, though that did nothing to stop me claiming my rights as her husband when I crawled between her legs,” he grinned, his few brown and yellow teeth slimy and shining with saliva. “Disgusted by me or not, daughter, you _will_ heed me – if I discover that your maidenhead is in anyway compromised, I will tie stones to you and throw you from the Crossing myself,” Roslin startled at the threat, her face growing flush with anger and embarrassment.

 

“Of course, my lord,” Roslin said stiffly, keeping her fury in check by the skin of her teeth, inclining her head. “I have no desire to lay with any other than my lord husband, when it is required.”

 

“Oh, it will be required, daughter. I suspect it will be required many, _many_ times. If you were my wife, I would tie you to the marriage bed,” he laughed again, though this time he did not cough because he reached for his chalice, taking a long draw from it.

 

Roslin stared at him in absolute disgust and fury, inspecting every line of his wizened face with a sort of detached hatred. How had she gotten here? Crossing through time and perhaps even worlds to be reborn again – to this man? This man who treated women as objects – less than, even, because he took good care of his possessions, who did nothing with his life other than obsess over perceived slights and spread his vile seed into the wind. How had she gone from a powerful woman, a woman who could throw magic around like nothing, to be born as a girl in a time where her only worth lay in the sanctity of her maidenhead and how many kids she could birth for some lord?

 

Absolute fury embedded itself in her flesh, burning through her body and growing stronger with every beat of her heart until she could almost hear it, churning inside of her like a storm that kept building, and building until she could feel the pressure in her ears, underneath her eyelids, in her very teeth until –

 

The chalice in her lord father’s hands exploded, wood and wine flying in all directions. Instantly, the pressure in her head decreased.

 

“M’lord –” the serving woman yelped, shocked. Lord Frey seemed similarly affected, jumping out of his poor imitation of a throne faster than she would have thought possible. Her lord father looked absolutely stunned, as if he wasn't able to comprehend what just happened. He glanced at the servant and then anger seeped into his expression. Again he seemingly defied his age, raising his hand and bringing the back of it against the face of the poor girl. The sound of his skin smacking her flesh pierced the otherwise silence, and the force of it sent it to the girl to her knees.

 

“Clean this up, filthy wench,” her father bellowed, obviously shaken.

 

Temporarily forgotten, Roslin’s first thought was to relish in the memory of her Lord father’s face as his cup broke in his hand – it had been a delightful mixture of fear and confusion, with a helpless vulnerability that made her heart sing.

 

Her second thought was – had she had caused it?

 

The thought sent a rush of pleasure through her body. She had seen herself do much more impressive things in her dreams, but had never done so in this life. The thought that perhaps she could do some of the things that she had once done sent shivers down her spine.

 

“May I be excused, my lord?” Roslin asked, demurely, just loud to be heard over her lord father’s screaming at the servant.

 

Her father glanced at her briefly, as if she were no more than a fly. He waved her away, before turning away.

 

Roslin hurried from the hall.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> I know that some of you think that Hermione being born into House Frey is a little strange. It's how I wanted it to go - it really bothered me in the books that Robb was so honorable and true, except when it came to his oath to Walder Frey. And here we are. Thanks for reading!

**Chapter Two**

**.**

**.**

Since her moon's blood a little over a year ago, Roslin chose to spend most of her time in the Sept. None of Wader Frey's descendants were particularly devout and their Septon was a raging drunk, so most times she had the small room to herself. She barred the door when she was there late at night – sometimes she felt unsafe when she was out of her room too late, even though most of the people in the castle shared her blood in some way or another.

 

However, presently the sun was shining its morning glow, trickling through the small windows. Roslin currently sat in front of the small figurine that depicted the Stranger. The Seven spoke of the Stranger as the aspect of their god associated with death, and the unknown. He was the one who lead the dead from this world. Not many people lit any candles for him, and Roslin couldn't blame them – no one liked to be confronted with the fact that, at some point, all men must die.

 

Perhaps that was why Roslin was so drawn to Him. In her previous life, she had lived to be very old, even older than her current lord father, and though she did not remember the specific details of her previous demise she knew that she had not been fearful of it. And somehow she had been taken from that life, that world and delivered here. But why? What was her purpose? Was it really to be deliver babies and die, as her mother had before her?

 

Since her bleeding, Roslin had been testing the limits of her the powers that she seemed to have carried over from her previous life. She did not have a wand this time around. She had remembered the instrument quite clearly after her nightmare she had the night her first moonsblood came. Her wand had been ten and three quarters inches long, made of vine wood and a dragon heartstring core but she had no way of getting one here. That didn't seem to matter much, however – magic in this world seemed easier to touch with her fingertips, and she didn't seem to  _need_ to use words to make it happen.

 

Roslin remembered some of the words she had used in her previous life, however –  _protego_ ,  _accio_ ,  _bombarda_  – and sometimes she used them. There were more she remembered, and perhaps if she  _had_  a wand she would use the words more, but without a wand it was rather pointless to try.

 

Instead Roslin seemed to be able to focus her magic through her hands, and sometimes her very eyes. She had gotten rather proficient at the practice, in her hours alone in the Sept. She could move things around her without touching them and light a candle with her fingertip. Sometimes she could look into the eyes of another, and a stray thought that was not her own would float through her mind.

 

Other things seemed to awaken in her mind as well; strange runes that she had never seen in this world, strange equations that had magical purpose and potions that could heal one of the worst ills or give one the most grave sort of deaths. To Roslin's dismay, she could not practice these as much as she liked, as they mostly required parchment and a quill. By all rights she should not even know how to read the Common Tongue, let alone this strange language of runes and complicated equations that she doubted even the Maesters knew.

 

Roslin sighed and her rush of breath made her candle dance in front of her. Roslin turned her head and caught her reflection in the small, crude mirror on the other side of the room. She found herself standing and crossing the room for a closer look. It was very odd, to look at herself in a mirror. Sometimes, it was as if she had two faces – the one she saw in her mind, and the one she saw with her eyes. This time around her hair had tamed considerably, but was still rather curly and dark. Her eyes were a mossy green instead of brown, and there were freckles all over her nose and cheeks. Roslin met her reflection's gaze and then smiled, observing her teeth. She remembered that she had had misshapen teeth before, and that seemed to have been the same this time. However, like last time, Roslin had managed to figure out a way to magically correct them. Perhaps it was vain of her to want good teeth, but Roslin found she didn't care. Her looks were her only value in this place anyway.

 

Suddenly the door to the Sept flew open, banging against the wall loudly. Roslin jumped about a foot in the air, turning to see Tyta standing there, panting with exertion.

 

"There you are! Been lookin' all over the damn place for you," she breathed between gasps for air. "Our father wants to see you in the Great Hall," she leaned against the door frame.

 

"What's going on?" Roslin asked, wondering what could possibly have made Tyta run, let alone all over the castle.

 

"Where have you been? Some army is on the north side of the Crossing, been camped out there most of the day. The Lady of Winterfell came and then her son," Tyta glared at her. "Well, are you just going to stand there? Father will tan my ass if you don't get there soon," she snapped.

 

Roslin nodded, squeezing past her half-sister to make her way to the main castle. As soon as she crossed the small bridge that led to the main part of the castle she began to hear sounds of men. When she reached the highest point before entering the main part, she was able to see just how many men there were – thousands upon thousands. The sight of them took Roslin's breath away.

 

As she hurried through the castle, Roslin's heart raced in her chest. The Lady of Winterfell and her son were somewhere in the castle, and her father wanted to see her. She knew that he desired her to marry into a Great House, but the Starks were one of the most ancient and noble of all houses – they could trace their lineage all the way back to Bran the Builder, who raised the Wall in the north almost eight millennia ago. Surely her father couldn't possibly be considering trying to broker a marriage deal.

 

She slid to a stop before the entrance to the Great Hall. There was a guard at the door who looked immensely relieved to see her. He quickly opened the door, motioning for Roslin to follow.

 

"Lady Roslin has arrived, Lord Frey," the man announced. Roslin walked into the room, doing her best to hide her nerves. As she entered, she immediately noticed that the Hall was almost empty – that was odd, her lord father rarely hosted guests without at least twenty people to watch him. Then her eyes fell to her father, and next to him an unknown woman with rich, auburn hair and light blue eyes. Next to her, in turn, was a young man who looked similar in age to herself, and very like the woman he stood next to.

 

"About time, daughter," Lord Frey spoke, annoyance leaking through his otherwise surprisingly polite tone. Perhaps the Lady of Winterfell and her son didn't even notice it.

 

"My apologies, my lord," Roslin spoke softly, dipping into a curtsy. "I have been in the Sept all morning. I did not know we had guests," her eyes flitted to the woman and young man and she dipped into another, smaller curtsy before she looked back to her father.

 

"How pious of you," her father sneered dryly, "Daughter, this is Lady Stark of Winterfell and her Robb Stark, her son," her father informed, looking at her expectantly.

 

Clenching her hands into fists as she grabbed her skirts, she dipped into another low curtsy, wondering how many times she was expected to do such. "A pleasure to meet you, Lady Stark and Lord Robb," she said politely, greeting the one of higher status first, as was customary. The societal courtesies of this world were honestly exhausting and confusing. Not to mention that there were a severe lack of proper titles for nobility – everyone was a lord or lady from the lowest noble houses to the highest of the Great Houses. Not a Duke and Duchess or Baron or Baroness to be seen; just lords and ladies. Mental. "I am Roslin Frey," the name tasted wrong in her mouth, her very lips reluctant to form the name, as it always did.

 

She raised her eyes to look at them after several moments of silence. The Lady of Winterfell seemed to be judging Roslin's appearance sharply, her sky blue eyes surveying her and landing often upon her hips. She glanced at the lady's son and found that his expression was very different – he looked at her with open interest, surprise apparent on his face. Roslin glanced at her father, taking care not to show her suspicion, wondering how many of her unfortunate looking sisters and nieces had been in the room when he arrived.

 

"A pleasure, Lady Roslin," the son spoke, giving her a hesitant smile. Roslin's eyes fell to the young lord's teeth and was pleased to see that they were straight, and very white – she had always had a thing about teeth, even in her first life, a side effect of her parent's profession. "Please, call me Robb," he requested.

 

Roslin inclined her head, returning his soft smile. After he left, her lord father would probably berate her for not openly flirting with the young lord, heir of a Great House. She just couldn't bring herself to simper before men like some tart, acting a dunce.

 

"She is very skinny," Lady Stark said after her critical observation completed, "Comely enough but very narrow hips, Lord Frey," she continued, and Roslin fought to keep her face impassive. It did not surprise her that another woman would base all of Roslin's value off of her appearance, feminism was not even a figment of a concept in Westeros and the idea that Roslin could have any other value besides her appearance and her ability to bear children was laughable. "She looks like Rosby stock, and I worry about her ability in the birthing bed," the Lady of Winterfell continued and this time nothing could prevent the indignant blush that she felt in her cheeks.

 

Lady Stark's voice was almost openly hostile, and Roslin deduced that Robb Stark's men sought to pass the Crossing, and her father was trying to leverage a marriage agreement out of the works. Roslin blanched at the idea and her mind raced to try to deduce what could have caused her father to believe that he could attempt to strong-arm such an important house to marry one of his lowly daughters of a late wife. She knew that Lord Eddard Stark had been named Hand of the King after Jon Arryn's demise, and that he was currently in King's Landing serving King Robert Baratheon.

 

"Her mother gave me five children," her lord father said simply. Roslin looked at him and saw that he was glancing at Robb upon occasion, smugly noticing Robb's pleased expression. "Four sons and herself, all surviving," he informed, and Lady Stark looked at her again, this time considering.

 

"Perhaps Lady Roslin and I could have a few moments of privacy," Robb spoke, even as his mother had opened her mouth to speak. "Afterwards, I am sure we can continue this discussion," he asserted. Her lord father stared at the young lord with his beady little eyes before turning to her. He looked at her a long moment, and his expression made it clear what he expected from her.

 

"Daughter, show the young lord the gardens you're always traipsing about in," her lord father commanded, eyes turning to Catelyn Stark. She was honestly surprised that he restrained himself from making a comment about how Lord Stark would want to sample the goods before buying. Thankfully, he seemed to taste the blood already in the water and restrained himself.

 

Robb looked meaningfully at his mother before turning to face her. She looked at the man that might very well end up as her lord husband. Nerves stirred in her belly – escaping to the North did not sound so bad, compared to her life here. But this marriage was a forced issue, she knew that there must be some reason that they would even consider such a match and that made her nervous. Robb approached her, offering her his arm.  
  


She took it delicately, glancing up to his face. It seemed to her that he had a handsome, kind face and his clear blue eyes were open and honest. Honestly, he was a much more attractive man than she had hoped to be matched with considering how her other sisters had married. Her lord father had actually delivered on his word, much to her surprise. She was determined to escape her father's reach and this was the opportunity of a lifetime.

 

Smiling gently at Robb, she led him from the hall.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! I really appreciate it and it definitely encourages me to continue writing. Many have questions on how Hermione ended up in Westeros, what purpose she will serve there and how events will unfold due to Hermione's powers. All I can say is that everything will be answered in the proper time!
> 
> I also want to make it clear that although Hermione has been reborn as Roslin in this work, not all of Hermione's beliefs will be the same as they were in her previous life. Roslin has had a very different life than Hermione had growing up. Life in House Frey is not the nurturing, wholesome existence that Hermione had in her previous life. I'm trying very hard to make sure Roslin is not some perfect character slapped into Westros society - she will have flaws, she will not always be kind, and when faced with a moral dilemma, she may not always make the correct choice.
> 
> With that said, I hope you all continue to enjoy this story.

**Chapter Three**

**.**

**.**

"These are your gardens then, Lady Roslin?" Lord Robb asked politely, observing the small open courtyard and surrounding ground. Roslin nodded, taking a deep breath of the fragrant air of her small oasis.

 

"Yes," Roslin replied, glancing at him. "I enjoy growing flowers, and other useful herbs. The kitchen maids love the fresh basil," she grinned at the young lord. "But surely you don't care to hear about my basil, my lord," she said.

 

Robb cleared his throat nervously, before laughing a small, nervous laugh. "It is very interesting, my lady. But I confess, more troubling matters occupy my mind."

 

"Just so," Roslin agreed amicably, reaching down to one of her box plants and adjusting it against the stand it was supported by. "If there was not, I cannot possibly imagine what would make the heir to the North even consider a daughter of Lord Frey," Roslin decided to be bold with the young lord before her. She felt that her courtesies would gain little favor with a man of his apparent nature, one who was used to ladies simpering over his person.

 

Robb blinked in surprise before settling into an easy smile, "You do not give yourself enough credit, my lady," he complimented. "Any lord would be blessed by such a beautiful lady wife."

 

"That is kind of you to say, my lord," Roslin said. "I am not opposed to marrying you. I feel that I would be a good wife to you and bear you many children," the words fell from her mouth and they tasted bitter, as if she believed that that was her true worth. "I only wish to understand the circumstances that led you here, with my wretched lord father having leverage over you."

 

Robb sighed, running a hand through his auburn curls before running it across his face, where the beginnings of a beard grew. "You're very astute, Lady Roslin. I will not lie, my road is a dangerous one. My lord father was Hand of the King in King's Landing, but upon the death of King Robert has been declared a traitor and held prisoner," he told her. Roslin was shocked – it was well known that Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell and King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, Protector of the Realm were the closest of friends, having rode together against the Mad King and his heir Rhaegar to avenge Eddard's sister and Robert's beloved. For him to be accused of turning traitor was shocking, to say the least.

 

"And so you called your father's banners and journey south, to save your father," Roslin concluded, eyes wide. "Lord Robb, I am so sorry. For my lord father to try to force you into marriage at such a time – it is despicable," Roslin honestly was shocked at his gall. No wonder Lady Stark was such vehemently opposed to the match. Roslin also remembered that Catelyn Stark had once been Catelyn Tully, and was daughter to her lord father's liege lord. "You can refuse, my lord father cannot  _truly_ deny you the Crossing. Perhaps you can take wards to Winterfell, maybe make my brother Olyvar your squire as well," Roslin suggested, suggesting her favorite full-blood sibling, the youngest of her older brothers. He would do well to squire for the young lord.

 

Robb Stark touched her arm lightly, stilling her speech. "You are not responsible for your father's actions, Lady Roslin," Robb assured her, and Roslin felt a fluttering in her stomach at his words. "The talk of my marriage has been long discussed, my lady. Nothing had been placed in stone, and there is no doubt that I do indeed need to marry," he went on conversationally. "Perhaps I was meant to marry you all along, Lady Roslin," he flashed her a charming grin.

 

Roslin felt heat rise to her face at his tone, and the look that he gave her as he spoke. For the first time, Roslin allowed herself to really  _look_  at the young lord. His eyes were astonishing – a deep and clear blue, framed with thick, dark lashes. His skin was fair and clear, and she often found her eyes straying to his dark auburn hair and the red beginnings of a beard on his cheeks, admiring the color. When he smiled, his teeth were white and straight. His shoulders were broad and he looked strong and muscular.

 

Robb cleared his throat and Roslin inwardly startled, realizing she had been caught staring at him. Outwardly, she merely brought her eyes to meet his and raised her eyebrows slightly, unsure what to say to such a statement. "Perhaps you were, my lord," she said, demurely. Robb looked at her with such open interest and desire, but she wondered what kind of man he really was. He seemed sincere and honorable, everything she had heard previously about the Starks. There was a sort of innocence about him – an innocence that Roslin felt that she had never possessed in this life. He was definitely a young soul. Perhaps it was this nature that made her feel the need to speak, give some sort of warning about her. Not many men wanted a witch for a wife, especially the heir to the North. "But perhaps you should really consider whether you want ties with my father and my family," she warned, "There are simply so many of us – it makes many of my relatives treacherous and scheming. My lord father is the most obvious, but there are others that are just as bad, if not worse."

 

Robb listened to her words with an impassive expression. Unable to get a read off of his face, Roslin looked directly at his eyes, sending out her awareness until it gently brushed against his. Instantly, she knew that her words had done little to dissuade him – if anything, they had made his resolve stronger, for now he felt the need to save her from her awful relations. Roslin inwardly sighed but also felt a small bit of pleasure at his obvious desire of her.

 

"You are not responsible for your father's actions  _or_  that of your family, Lady Roslin," Robb repeated, stepping closer to her with a smile on his face. His eyes strayed from hers, falling to her lips. Roslin's heart started to race in her chest, but outwardly she merely smirked and took a half step back.

 

"I am very opinionated as well," Roslin told him, although now her voice was playful instead of somber. Robb's smile grew as he took another step forward, "Stubborn, too," she added, her eyebrows rising in warning.

 

"I have always wanted an opinionated, stubborn lady wife," Robb said matter-of-factly, without hesitation, his eyes never straying from her mouth. He took another step and suddenly the space between them shrunk to almost nothing – she could reach out and run a hand through his thick, auburn locks if she wished. Roslin blushed at his proximity, but didn't step away. She  _wanted_ to marry this young lord, wanted him to  _want_  to marry her. Roslin didn't know how much longer she could stand to live in this awful place with her awful family, and Robb Stark was not just an escape – he was the  _perfect_  escape.

 

She looked up at him through her lashes, her breath catching in her chest. He leaned to her and Roslin hesitated only a brief second before she closed the distance between them, her lips meeting his. His lips were surprisingly soft and warm, and he tasted like wine and mint, to Roslin's extreme delight. Roslin felt the hairs on her arm stand on end, her magic swelling in pleasure as heat ran through her veins. Perhaps Robb felt it too, as she heard him inhale sharply before his hand rose to brush against the small section of bare skin at her shoulder. She felt a shiver rise up in her spine and her lower stomach clenched in anticipation, surprised at the shock that ran through her at this smallest of touches.

 

Roslin's eyes flew open before she pulled herself away, shock written on her features. She had had memories from  _before_  with Ron, but they had never felt like how it had with Robb just now. Perhaps it was the fact that those were memories and this had actually  _happened_ to her, or perhaps she hadn't had that type of connection with Ron. Roslin had thought she had been prepared for her first kiss in this lifetime but she definitely hadn't been expecting  _that_. Not that she was disappointed to be wrong, this time.

 

"Be careful what you wish for, my lord," Roslin quipped with a smile of her own, resisting the urge to touch her tingling lips.

 

**. … .**

 

Her lord father feasted her betrothed that night, as behind the scenes the women of the family and the servants began preparation for tomorrow's upcoming nuptials. Though Robb was heir to the North, it would be a relatively small ceremony. Roslin was also concerned that they had no proper Weirwood trees in their godswood – all the ones with faces had been chopped down and burned by the Andals almost six millennia ago. The closest ones were on God's Eye, near Harrenhal, but there was no crossing of the Army at the Twins until the marriage. The Weirwood trees around the Twins lacked a face and were much smaller and younger, but they would serve, she supposed.

 

Currently, Roslin was getting her lady mother's wedding dress altered to fit her frame. It was one of the few possessions of her mother that she had, apart from a few baubles of jewelry that had been missed by her relation's pilfering hands. It was a rather pretty dress, Roslin reflected – her mother had been from House Rosby and their banners consisted of three red chevrons on ermine, and the dress reflected the colors. The dress itself was a silver-white, silken material that wrapped tight around her upper torso and hips, gradually loosening as it fell to her feet. The stitching around her waist and down her bodice was vermilion, as were the straps that held the dress at her shoulders. The lace strings that held it together in the back were black, crisscrossing down her spine. Overall it was very simple, perhaps too simple to marry an heir of a Great House, but Roslin loved it anyway. She only prayed that her marriage to Robb Stark would be a happier one than her mother had.

 

Several seamstresses and servants surrounded her, the women turning her this way and that way, pulling at her here, hoisting her up there, but Roslin accepted the treatment in silence. She knew that her father had harassed the servants into a frenzy – if anything went wrong tomorrow, Roslin knew that there would be hell to pay – and therefore decided not to hold their quick, frantic actions against them.

 

"I suppose you're pleased with yourself," a voice came from behind her. Roslin looked at the mirror in front of her and saw that her half-sister Tyta stood in the doorway, staring at her in her wedding dress. "A fresh maiden of ten and six, off to be the future Lady of Winterfell. A child of Walder Frey has never risen so high," the older woman sneered, looking remarkably like their lord father as she did so.

 

Despite herself, Roslin felt a small flash of malicious pleasure at the woman's obvious jealousy. Tyta had always been particularly cruel to her, perhaps because Roslin had been the first daughter to be born after her. She also received more favor from their lord father than Tyta ever had. Not that was anything to brag about, but Tyta hated her for it. Part of Roslin had always felt badly for her unfortunate half-sister, but the other woman was honestly just so awful it was hard to remember why Roslin should empathize. Roslin did not turn to face her half-sister, merely looking at the mirror to see where the woman stood rather than deign to look at her actual face.

 

"Emmon married Genna Lannister, the sister of Lord Lannister himself," Roslin stated factually, remembering her much older half-brother, while struggling to keep the smugness from her tone. "But I do believe you are right, sister. I do not think a Frey has ever married an heir to a Great House," Roslin said, nodding her head in a would-be gracious manner, a soft smile on her face. She had been in Gryffindor last life but at the moment she felt particularly Slytherin.

 

Tyta's dark eyes narrowed to slits, her bony face flushing in embarrassment or anger, Roslin did not know. "Father is giving Lord Robb six thousand men for his army, foolish girl," she said scornfully. "That is why Robb Stark is marrying you, make no mistake,  _sister_ ," Tyta said the endearment like a curse. "You just happen to have the looks to sweeten the deal. But looks can sour. Accidents happen," the older woman went on, hate in her eyes.

 

"Accidents  _do_  happen," Roslin said evenly, raising her eyebrows in challenge. Eyes never straying from Tyta in the mirror, Roslin released a tendril of her magic that had roared furiously to life at Tyta's threatening words. In the mirror, Roslin watched as Tyta stumbled back a step, as if she had been pushed in the chest. "Speaking of accidents, I almost had a nasty fall the other day. There are so  _many_ stairs in this castle, are there not?" Roslin complained. Another shove, this time came from behind, pushing Tyta a couple of steps into the room. "Why are you stumbling?" Roslin asked sharply, "Tyta, our lord father has  _told_ you to stay away from the wine," she scolded. "You'll fall down one of those stairs and break your neck," she taunted, and this time was a shove at her half-sister's legs, swiping them out from under her. Tyta landed hard on her arse, yelping in shock and pain. Tyta's dark gaze shot to Roslin's reflection, eyes wide with fear.

 

Roslin scoffed in disgust. "Escort my half-sister to her chambers," she demanded at one of the servants at her feet. "I do not care to deal with drunks the night before my wedding," Roslin said sharply. Something about the way she said the words made the servant at her feet scurry away to help her sister stand, and surprisingly Tyta made no protest as she was removed from the room.

 

Roslin inhaled deeply after she was gone. It had had been satisfying to lash out at her wretched sister with her powers, with none the wiser. But almost immediately, Roslin found herself feeling guilty – her abilities shouldn't be used for petty revenge, and Tyta was helpless against them. It didn't matter that she was a wretched, bitter woman who often did whatever she could to ridicule Roslin, she should have had more discipline.

 

Still, it had felt  _really_ good.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> Thanks everyone for the comments! I really, really appreciate them.
> 
> This chapter is a bit of a filler, I admit. I'm currently working intensively on the outline of this story and I also just started school again, so updates might be a bit slow. I'll try to post a chapter once a week, but it may get pushed out to once every two weeks. The bonus here is that the chapters should also start being longer and more plot-driven.

 

**. ... .**

Roslin found herself staring at her reflection in the bright hours of the morning. Her handmaidens were finishing up the last touches of her hair and applying a small layer of kohl around her vibrant green eyes and red dye to her lips. In this life she had been blessed with beauty and cursed with vanity, but they served her in ways that she hadn't needed the previous time around. She knew she had been no slouch the first time, especially as she matured, but while looks had been important in her first life other qualities had been more heavily weighed – her voracious intelligence and skills had been enough there. Perhaps they could be useful here as well but they would never had mattered if she had not had the pretty face she had been born with.

 

She met her reflection's gaze and admired her eyes; they always reminded her of Harry, though his eyes had had more electricity than her own possessed – hers was more like the bright moss that grew on the side of a tree. As she gazed at her reflection, she thought back to her first wedding, in the life before. The memories of her previous wedding were sparse; she had a feeling that it had been a small affair, with little ceremony. This one would be just the same – the old gods of the North had a much simpler wedding ceremony then the Seven did.

 

Behind her, her door opened and Roslin spun to see her future good mother as she entered the room. Lady Stark's clear blue eyes accessed Roslin's appearance and smiled widely at her, much to Roslin's surprise.

 

"You look beautiful, Lady Roslin," Catelyn complimented as she approached. The servants that had been around quickly made room for the Lady of Winterfell.

 

"Thank you, Lady Stark," Roslin said demurely, unsure how to act around the woman. She was not so naive to believe the Catelyn Stark had any affection for her – how could she? Her marriage to the Heir of the North was blackmail, pure and simple, no matter how much Robb was receptive to the idea.

 

"I wish I could have you wear the veil I wore when Ned and I married," Catelyn continued, sounding wistful. "I always imagined my son marrying at Winterfell. The Weirwood there is one of the most beautiful in the land, and one of the most ancient, this side of the wall."

 

"Perhaps we can have another, small ceremony when we return to Winterfell," Roslin offered lightly. Her words were met with silence from the Lady of Winterfell, who simply continued to look at Roslin's reflection with a wistful look on her face.  _Is she thinking back to her own wedding day?_  Roslin found herself wondering, trying to figure out what she could say to alleviate the underlying sense of dislike she sensed from her future mother in law.

 

"Lady Stark," Roslin said, turning away from her reflection in the mirror to look Catelyn in the face. "I am not unaware of the circumstances that led to this wedding. I believe my father's actions are reprehensible. I said as much to Robb," she told the older woman solemnly. "However, I am not like to deny how much the idea of marrying your son thrills me. From the short time I have had with Robb, he is everything I could have dared to hope for; honorable, kind, young and very handsome," she smiled shyly, playing up the blushing maiden routine just a bit. She trailed off dreamily for a moment before she sobered, looking back to Catelyn, "However, I am aware of the dire circumstances that we are to face journeying south, and I will protect Robb and assist him in any way I can," Roslin assured her.

 

Lady Stark was silent for another moment, and her clear eyes looked sharply into her own, searching for something that Roslin didn't know what. She must have found it, however, as her eyes softened, "I appreciate that, Lady Roslin. I am sure my son will as well," the older lady said in a conciliatory way. Catelyn smiled and Roslin was suddenly struck with how beautiful the woman before her truly was – her eyes were large and clear and her skin was pale and unblemished. Traveling and the stress of life had obviously taken its toll on the Lady of Winterfell, but as their eyes met, Roslin was able to see a glimpse of her on her wedding day – dark red hair shining brightly in the sun as she walked with her lord father to the Sept in Riverrun.

 

"I  _am_ looking forward to having grandchildren. I am sure they will be beautiful," Lady Catelyn continued, and the vision faded away. Roslin felt that perhaps her future good mother was attempting to offer some sort of olive branch before the ceremony. Roslin planned to make sure that she helped Robb Stark in many other ways in addition to the bedchamber and the fruits of that time, but Roslin returned the smile to the Catelyn, nodding lightly. Roslin wasn't sure to make of the Lady of Winterfell but she definitely did not count her as an ally yet.

 

Lady Stark left her some time later and Roslin was alone again, other than a few servants as they packed up almost her entire life in preparation for her departure tomorrow. Roslin itched for solitude, but she supposed that she should get used to the constant feeling of people around her if she was to be traveling with Robb. Roslin had ordered a few of her trusted gardeners to start mass-harvesting the herbs and plants she thought she would need the most while on the road and place them in jars to keep them fresh and she was sure that her small gardens were packed with people currently.

 

Roslin found herself ready with nothing to do for quite some time – the ceremony would not begin until just before sunset and then there would be a short feast before finally the bedding. Robb Stark and his army would be leaving the Twins at first light on the morrow. A small part of Roslin found herself anticipating the bedding ceremony with Robb with a sort of nervous excitement but a larger part of her was starting to feel a lot of guilt about concealing her true nature from Robb. He seemed an honorable man and in this world, there was a lot less stigma attached to magic than her previous one. There were stories of magic in the North, too – of wargs, grumkins and snarks, and of course the famous Children of the Forest. Roslin didn't put too much stock in most of what she had heard but the fact was that it was out there. Perhaps Robb would be receptive to her abilities? But what if he was not? Could Roslin really risk this most advantageous marriage due to a guilty conscious? Roslin wasn't sure.

 

**. … .**

 

Her oldest half-brother, Stevron, was there to escort her to the Godswood. Roslin had hoped that Perwyn or perhaps Benfrey would escort her as they were her eldest, full-blooded siblings, but her lord father had refused. Her father's heir would give her away in his place, as he was much too old and feeble to venture into the Godswood himself.

 

Roslin was not particularly close to him, despite his presence being constant around Frey's castle. He was well past fifty, particularly bulbous, and looked quite a bit like their lord father. Fortunately his temperament was very different, being polite and soft spoken. Such as it was, there was very little conversation as they approached the Godswood, where quite a crowd had gathered. Everyone carried torches, casting warm light in the ever-darkening forest. Roslin pulled lightly at one shoulder of her maiden's cloak, itching to get the towers off of her shoulders.

 

Stevron was huffing and puffing as they approached. Roslin felt about one hundred pairs of eyes land upon her form, watching as she approached the Weirwood, where her groom was already waiting. The sight before her was awe-inspiring. Hundreds of small candles rested around the roots and on the lowest hanging branches, casting an ethereal glow around the majestic tree.

 

Robb was already waiting there, his mother standing to one side and Lord Bolton standing next to him. Lord Bolton would be officiating the ceremony as the old gods had no priests and Bolton was the highest ranking northern man besides Robb in attendance. Roslin felt wary about the northern lord; he was of average height and build, with skin as white as moonlight and his face was smooth, though he had a full head of dark but greying hair. Bolton's eyes were so pale that Roslin wasn't sure if they were grey or blue, or any color at all – they unnerved her, mostly because when she looked into them she felt nothing, not a whisper of a thought or feeling.

 

Roslin met Robb's eyes and saw that they were solemn and alight all at once. Roslin's stomach clenched in anticipation. Robb looked very handsome, clad in high boots of soft, grey leather and a dark grey doublet fastened over a soft white sleeves with solid silver direwolves. In the warm light of the candles, his dark auburn hair was flushed with red, as was his skin –  _was he blushing?_ Roslin wondered, pleased.

 

"Who comes before the Gods?" Lord Bolton asked as Roslin approached close enough to reach for Robb.

 

"Roslin of House Frey comes here to be wed," Stevron said, sounding stiff as he spoke the ceremonial words. "A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods," he continued, "Who comes to claim her?"

 

"I do," Robb answered at once, stepping to her and drawing her hands away from the arm of her half-brother and onto his own. "Robb of House Stark, heir to Winterfell. I claim her. Who gives her?"

 

"Stevron of House Frey, who is her brother and her father's heir," Stevron turned to face her, looking relieved that his part was almost over. "Lady Roslin, do you take this man?" he asked, though Roslin did not look away from Robb's eager face.

 

"I take this man," Roslin said without hesitation, and Robb smiled, pleased as his fingers entwined with her own. He led her to an area were cushions had been placed, and they knelt under the Weirwood, heads bowed in prayer. Roslin did so despite her fascination and her private following of the Stranger, praying to the old gods that Robb wouldn't cast her out as a witch before they ever left their marriage bed. Just as they stood, Roslin felt a gentle breeze filter through her hair, and watched as the candles surrounding the Weirwood danced and flickered. Gently, Robb unfastened her maiden cloak and she felt like he lifted the weight of the world off of her shoulders. When he placed the bride's cloak around her shoulders and Roslin fastened it at her throat, she felt lighter than air.

 

Robb looked at her, admiring the way his sigil sat upon her shoulders and the way the candle light and torch light made her green eyes looked lined with fire and gold. He reached for her lovely face, pulling it close to his own as their lips met.

 

The small clearing filled with cheers, northern and southern men alike.

 

**. … .**

 

The hour drew late even as the feast began, and Roslin was positive that she had never seen so many people inside the Twins as she did that night. She had changed attire for the feast and bedding, her servants frantically braiding her long strands of hair for an elaborate partial up do, as women were wont to wear in the south. The only northern women Roslin had seen yet such far was Lady Stark and Maege and Dacey Mormont, and though sometimes they pulled their hair back into a long, single braid, they mostly wore their hair long and free, as Roslin had during the wedding ceremony. Her servants laced her into her corset before she stepped into the soft gown that Lady Stark had apparently ordered made for the occasion of ivory samite. Grey and white jewels decorated the bodice in sharp contrast to the long flowing skirts around her feet.

 

It was much more elegant and beautiful than her wedding dress, and Roslin wondered for a moment if perhaps it was meant as a snub to her lord father, showing the wealth of House Stark against House Frey. It did not bother her in the slightest – she was Roslin Stark now. Roslin Frey was no longer.

 

Even as she thought it, a wrongness struck her. She was not Roslin Stark, either. Her true name was still denied.

 

Still, it was a start.

 

Finally dressed, she made her way to the Great Hall with a few servants to escort her. Her lord husband would already be there, waiting for her in his place of honor to the right of Lord Frey himself. As she entered the hall, walking alone down the long isle that lead to the head table, she felt every eye land upon her and heard many of her female relations sigh at her attire. She smiled as she saw Robb looking upon her, and he stood as she approached to pull out her chair.

 

Her lord father had provided his finest fare – thick, sweet soup made of pumpkins, suckling pig stuffed with mushrooms, honeyed-roasted chicken, pigeon pie, roast onions dripping with brown gravy, turnips soaked in butter, honeycombs and baked apples that smelled like cinnamon. An entire ensemble of musicians filled the halls with music. Roslin wondered if she had ever eaten so well, despite the fact that she could only eat small portions of each thing. Her stomach was a ball of anticipation and nerves, thinking only of the bedding ceremony.

 

It was a positively antiquated ceremony, in Roslin's opinion, dating back to the customs were kings or liege lords had the right of First Night. Her new lord husband's men would harass her as she made her way to the bedchamber, pulling at her clothes and making crude remarks. Her female relatives would treat Robb with the same courtesy. Honestly, Roslin wished that she could skip the whole thing up until her and Robb were alone in the bedchamber, but she supposed that her lord father had given the northern men enough reason to be irritated – most were chafing at the delay her and Robb's wedding had caused – and depriving them of the opportunity to humiliate her would gain her no favors from them.

 

Roslin danced several times with her lord husband, who she was pleased to find very fluid on the dance floor, leading her with accomplished grace. She danced once with each of her full siblings – Benfrey had just made it to the Twins with his wife Jyanna this morning, after a quick raven had been sent – and once with Stevron, who complimented the ceremony. She also danced with Lord Bolton, who she thanked for officiating and who offered her a chilled response. Lord Karstark came next, welcoming her to the North as his 'cousin', and then afterwards came Theon Greyjoy. Theon had the distinction of being Robb's best childhood friend (as well as Lord Stark's captive ward) and Roslin found herself uneasy around him. While not overtly rude or unseemly, his eyes strayed too long and for some reason he would not stop smiling, as if everything was an amusing joke.

 

"The night grows late," Lord Frey announced after hours of feasting and dancing, standing up from his seat the first time all evening. "Let the bedding ceremony begin!" he announced, a loud cheer rising up in the hall. Roslin had just finished a dance with Robb, his one hand in her own and the other resting on her waist. At her lord father's words, Roslin's hand clenched around Robb's fingers reflexively. Robb glanced at her, taking in her nerves with a small smile.

 

"I have talked to my men, Lady Roslin. They will treat you gently, as you are befitted as my wife," Robb assured. Roslin nodded, not wanting to seem weak in front of her lord husband.

 

"I wish I could say the same to you," she grinned. "My relatives will have you down to skin long before you reach our bedchamber."


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> Thank you so much for everyone who has given this story kudos, has tagged and especially commented on this story. Honestly, you have no idea how much it means to receive feedback from all of you. Even just a couple of words brighten my day and inspire me to continue publishing new chapters. I've never written for Game of Thrones previously and to be honest, I've only watched up to the end of season 2 despite reading all the books so it is a little nerve wracking for me.
> 
> This chapter has some mature content and it is my very first time posting a scene like this so, well... let me know what you think, okay? I only rewrote it about a thousand times, so...
> 
> Brought to you by I Don't Own Anything and Probably Should Be Writing My Comparative Analysis Essay, here is the fifth chapter of Seven Winds:

 

 

**Chapter Five**

 

 

In the end, Robb’s men had barely pawed upon her, tearing her dress in only two places and barely managing to unlace the top of her gown. Like Roslin had predicted, Robb was in much worse shape – his doublet was practically shredded, the shirt beneath it torn in several places as well. They were shoved into the room that had been prepared for them amongst giggles and, to Roslin’s horror, suggestions on different positions to try.

Finally the door closed and Roslin latched it behind them with a flourish, thankful beyond all imaginings to have the piece of wood separating her and Robb from his men and her relations. As she turned to face Robb, she ran her hands nervously through her hair, casting a Silencing charm around the room as she did so. Her father would no doubt station guards outside the door and question them in the morning and she wanted them to have nothing to tell. He could have her maiden’s sheet, and that was it.

To Roslin’s surprise, Robb looked just as nervous as she felt. _Surely this is not his first time_ , Roslin thought to herself as they stood in semi-awkward silence, one observing the other. While women, _especially_ noble women, were expected to remain chaste before marriage, men were encouraged to visit brothels or sleep with servants before they married. Roslin wondered at the logic of that for only a moment before pushing it away – it would doubtless just make her angry.

“Would you like some wine?” Roslin found herself asking, her voice sounding strange and vulnerable, for whatever stupid reason. She had done this before, in the life she had once lived. She had even given birth to _children_ there, after all. So why was her heart racing in her chest like a drum? Why was her mouth dry as bone?

Perhaps it was guilt. To be intimate with Robb before expressing her true nature to him did not feel like she was simply protecting her secrets, as she had done her entire life. It felt deceitful in a way that she had never been in either lifetime. She had been so obsessed with the idea of escaping Lord Frey that she failed to realize what it might cost her. It didn’t help matters that Robb was obviously besotted with her, and seemed to be a very honorable sort of youth. Roslin had no doubt that if she gave him her maidenhead, he would not cast her out as a witch afterwards – he would protect her, as his wife. That realization made the guilt sink further into her stomach.

Whatever she chose, Roslin knew that her decision would irrevocably change the nature of her relationship with Robb. To start with the truth or to start with a lie?

Robb released a breath, relieved that the silence had been broken. He smiled, nodding, “I would love some,” he said gratefully. Roslin nodded, walking to where the wine had been set upon the desk in the room. She managed to keep her arm and hands steady as she poured the two goblets. Roslin turned and found Robb much closer than before, standing in the middle of the room, eyes lingering on her form. Her stomach clenched in anticipation.

“My lord,” she said, offering him one of the drinks. As soon as he took it from her, Roslin brought her own glass to her lips and took a large gulp. She did not often drink wine – alcohol did odd things to her magic – but now seemed a good time to break that particular habit. She quickly drained the entire goblet, physically shaking herself as she finished it, esophagus and stomach suddenly very warm.

Robb let out a short laugh at the sight, taking a large drink from his own drink as well, albeit a smaller than Roslin had. “Are you that nervous, Lady Roslin?” he asked, as he placed his drink on a near table, “I did not know you found me so intimidating.”

Roslin placed her drink next to his own, feeling remarkably more relaxed. “You have obviously never been a maiden on her wedding night, my lord,” she sighed, hiding behind her courtesies. Inside, her mind raced with indecision. She felt slightly sick. “The whole mess is intimidating, to be truthful,” Roslin went on.

“The whole mess?” Robb laughed, reaching for her hand and drawing her over to a large armchair near the fire. He sat and drew her onto his lap, relaxing into the back of the chair with a comfortable air about him. “You make it sound like such fun, my lady wife. It is not all about duty, you know,” he told her, his eyes traveling down to her collarbone and the smooth, unblemished skin of her arms.

Heat rose to her face and she smiled despite herself. Roslin wasn’t sure how to act around Robb just now – she did not want him to think her some bumbling, awkward child, nor did she want him to think she was a wanton woman and question her maidenhood. But, honestly she couldn’t even think of all that because she was a witch and could give him witch-heirs and the common folk could revolt and –

“There is something else that troubles me,” the words burst free of her lips in a rush, her hands nervously going to her hair and beginning to undo the braids there. Robb watched her fingers with fascination, “I fear that I have not been completely honest with you,” she admitted ruefully. She quickly rose and made to stand in front of the fire. She kept her back to Robb as she quickly removed the rest of her braids and ran her hands through the wavy mass of her hair, fidgeting with anxiety.

Robb watched as she gracefully removed herself from his lap before crossing the room to stand in front of the fire. He sat forward, reaching for his wine again. “Oh?” he asked lightly. They had only known each other for a little over a day – what could she possibly have kept from him already? He took a long drink, unsure what else to say. Robb watched as she slowly turned back to face him, her long dark hair flowing to her waist in wild waves. She was chewing, but not biting, on her left thumbnail and she looked very agitated and perhaps a little scared. Robb placed his goblet back down before he stood and approached her. “What is it, Roslin?” he asked, bewildered.

Her face rippled with emotion and he noticed that she was actually trembling. Robb hated to see such fear on his wife’s face – or any woman’s face, really – and instinctively sought to comfort her. “Come now, let us sit,” he bridged the distance between them and took her hand gently, leading her back to the chair. After she sat he knelt at her feet, looking up to her face. “Tell me what has upset you. Did you do something?” he ventured, keeping his voice even.

Roslin sighed, shaking her head. “No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Roslin said quickly. She brought her full lower lip between her teeth and the sight distracted Robb for a moment. Even though he was looking directly up to her face, she would not return his gaze. Her brilliant green eyes were focused completely on the hands that rested in her lap.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, she raised her eyes to meet his own. There was a sort of determination there that he had not yet seen before in the emerald depths. “Robb, this is going to sound very strange,” she warned, still looking very reluctant to speak despite finally doing so. “What do you know of –” Roslin hesitated for the most brief of moments, “– magic?” she choked out, with difficulty.

“ _Magic_?” Robb blinked, surprised at the question. He hesitated for a moment, looking at her fair face for any signs of humor. He was tempted to make a joke of her question before he found none. Roslin looked so serious that it took him aback. “Uhhh,” he stumbled, trying desperately to think back to stories Old Nan had told him in his childhood. “I know of wargs, my lady. Men who can go into the mind of animals. The Children of the Forest were said to be strong with magic…” he trailed off, trying to think, “I also know that those of Old Valyria were said to use the magic of fire and blood…” he trailed off again.

To his surprise, Roslin’s eyes lit up. She reached for his hands, drawing them into her lap. “Yes, those are good examples,” she complimented, nodding. “When I was little, my maester told me that in the Dawn Age, magic was everywhere in our world – the root of every tree, the blood of every creature, the song of each wind,” she told him, smiling. Robb said nothing, his face impassive, and Roslin wondered if he was questioning her sanity. She decided not to think about it. “Anyway, after the Doom in Valyria, magic began receding in the world, even more so after the last of the Targaryen dragons died. The Maesters say that it is gone in the West completely,” she sighed, but her spine was straight and chin set, “I know for a fact that this is not true. Magic is still there, Robb – for those who know how to grasp it.”

“That is...interesting, my lady,” Robb said after a moment, his voice full of confusion. He looked awkward and uncomfortable, unsure at what Roslin was going on about. “But I am not sure what any of this has to do with us or you, for that matter…”

Roslin noticed this and groaned, “Oh, gods, I’m rambling. It is just...I have never told anyone this before. I just…” she trailed off. “I’m just going to say it. Going to just say it out loud,” she repeated like a mantra, taking a deep breath. “I’m a witch,” she blurted, eyes shooting to his face instantly.

That was it. Roslin had taken the plunge, finally said the words out loud. She looked upon her lord husband’s face, taking in his reaction. His mouth fell open slightly and his eyebrows shot up towards his hairline before he caught himself, closing his mouth and moving to stand. Roslin’s chest tightened, “A witch?” he repeated, and he rubbed his forehead, as if an ache had formed there. “Like a...woods witch?” he asked. There had been a woods witch outside of Winter Town, Robb recalled – she mostly sold tonics and poultices for those who could not afford traditional treatment given by a maester.

Roslin shook her head, “Sort of, but not quite like a woods witch,” she told him, reaching for his hands again. She was glad when he did not pull away from her touch. “Do you believe me?” she asked, feeling quite small.

Robb looked at her face for a long moment before he answered. “I do not see why you would lie about such a thing, my lady,” he granted. “I am afraid I’m still not quite sure what you’re trying to tell me,” he sighed, pulling away from Roslin and reaching for his wine. He drank like a man dying of thirst, and Roslin inwardly laughed at the image. He seemed to be taking this well – perhaps this wouldn’t be a complete disaster after all. He pulled the goblet away from his mouth, having drained it completely, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“Do you need more wine, my lord?” Roslin asked, her heart pounding in her chest. He lifted his face to reply but before he could, the pitcher of wine on the far end of the room behind her lifted from the desk. After reaching arm level it floated steadily to Roslin’s awaiting hand, and she clenched her fingers around the handle. Robb watched the entire process with wide eyes, though this time his well-defined jaws stayed hinged, dignified. He hesitated for a moment before simply holding his goblet out for Roslin to fill.

Roslin smiled gratefully, and for some odd reason her eyes began to water. Blinking hard, Roslin took it and filled it once more. She refilled her own before walking to place the wine back upon the desk. When she turned, Robb was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall in what appeared to be – shock? Wonder? Roslin wasn’t sure.

Placing their wine on the stand, Roslin joined Robb on the edge of bed. “Please tell me what you are thinking,” she blurted, after he continued to be silent. “Do you find me positively deceitful? I should have told you before the wedding ceremony, I know, but everything happened so quickly and I did not know how to – “

“I do not find you deceitful, Lady Roslin,” Robb interrupted her fast-paced word spew. He was looking at her now, and Roslin had the sense that he was seeing her clearly and true for the very first time. Perhaps the first time that anyone had, in this life. “When my brother Jon and I were very young, we used to play magic in the Godswood at Winterfell,” he admitted with a small smile that quickly faded. “But Maester Luwin has a chain of Valyrian steel – he has always said that magic lived only in the legends of ages past. I never thought – “he cut off, grabbing his wine again.

“It is a little unsettling,” Roslin agreed quietly, after a moment. “None of my other siblings have shown any signs of it. Not even my full siblings,” she told him, “Just me. I’m not sure why.” His reaction was encouraging but she didn't want to push it and say anything about her past life – how much crazy could one man take in a day, after all?

“What else can you do?” Robb asked curiously, taking another drink from his chalice. “I've heard that woods witches can brew love potions. Is that true?” he asked, just a hint of a smirk on his lips.

Roslin rolled her eyes, trying to resist the urge to smile and almost succeeding. “No, no love potions,” she told him, though it wasn't quite the truth. She was certain she could, with the right ingredients, but she never would. Nasty things, love potions. “Love isn't something one can brew, after all,” she told him, smoothing out her skirts. “I _can_ make potions to heal most general ailments. _Oh_!” her eyes brightened. “I can make a potion that can make a person spontaneously burst into feathers,” she told him proudly, thinking of the potion she had designed especially for Black Walder, which she planned to dose him with at the soonest opportunity.

Robb hesitated a moment, presumably trying to decide if she were joking before bursting into laughter. Roslin grinned into her wine, the last of her unease fading away. She breathed a sigh of relief – Robb accepted her, even knowing the truth. She would tell him more of her powers later; it was their wedding night, after all.

“Do you still...desire me, my lord?” Roslin found herself asking, biting her bottom lip. “I know this was very…unexpected…” she trailed off.

Robb said nothing for a moment, grabbing her drink from her and placing it and his own on the table near them. Then he looked back to her and Roslin wondered if she had ever seen such an open and honest face. “I don't think I've ever desired anyone more, my lady,” he told her with a charming smile and Roslin blushed at how ridiculous he sounded. Ridiculous and...sweet, she thought warmly. “What, you do not believe me?” be asked playfully once he noticed her dubious expression. “How about I prove it to you, lady wife?” he suggested, his eyes falling to her lips.

Roslin kept her face impassive other than a slight quirk of her lips and a single eyebrow that rose in challenge. “Why don't you?” she quipped in the same playful tone. She needed to say nothing else before Robb pulled her to her feet, spinning her around so her back was to him.

Roslin felt Robb’s fingertips graze over her shoulder blades, moving her hair to the side and no doubt wondering how he was supposed to get her out of her dress with all the complicated knots and ties. An idea struck her and she released a small tendril of her magic. Right before his eyes the ribbon and ties down her back moved of apparently their own accord, faster than would be possible even if servants had been doing it. Roslin looked over her shoulder at him mischievously, raising an eyebrow.

Robb looked surprised, but only for a moment before he grinned fiendishly. “That could very much come in handy on the road, lady wife,” he said cheerfully before he lowered his mouth to kiss the skin at the curve of her neck. Roslin trembled lightly as Robb’s hands gently ran down the sides of her body, drawing her gown down until it fell to a puddle at her feet. The most expensive puddle Roslin had ever stood in, surely.

Feeling exposed in just her thin shift while Robb remained fully clothed, Roslin turned around and ran her hands over the silver direwolves that served as clasps to hold together his torn doublet. They came undone as her hand passed over them, as did the buttons of his soft linen undershirt. Robb gave no resistance as she pushed the fabrics down, allowing them to fall off of his frame.

Roslin sucked in a breath of air at the sight of her husband’s bare skin. Hours of training with his weapon’s master must have paid off, as his arms were muscled and strong, his chest and stomach lean and defined. Her eyes fell to below his belly button, where there was a trail of dark, downy-looking hair that led down and disappeared below the top of his trousers.

Robb let out a small, quiet laugh and Roslin’s eyes snapped upward, her face flushing from being caught staring at him once again. He did not seem to mind though, Roslin thought as she looked upon his face. His eyes seemed different, somehow – darker, as if grey had somehow steeped into the crystal clear waters. It was not matter; they were still some of the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen.

Made bold by the desire she saw in his dark depths, Roslin reached behind and pulled the string that kept the top of her shift secure. It slipped down her shoulders and Roslin caught it with her other arm before it slipped down completely. She looked back to Robb, who was watching her with a heated sort of attention before she dropped her arm. The thin fabric fell past her waist and Roslin tucked her thumbs into the sides of it, drawing it down her legs before she stepped free of it.

As she stood there, naked as the day she was born, Roslin found herself wondering what this was going to be like. She did not remember how it had been in her first life, and in this life there was no one who had explained anything other than her duty to please her husband and give him heirs. Beyond that, it was Roslin’s imagination and her basic understanding of human anatomy that had filled in the blanks.

Her nervous thoughts stilled as Robb bridged the distance between them, his calloused hands falling on either side of her waist. “You’re the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, my lady,” Robb told her. Roslin raised an eyebrow in disbelief but she could tell from his tone that he spoke true. He kissed her then, much harsher than he had in her gardens or after their wedding ceremony in the godswood. Roslin didn’t mind – her lips tingled as they moved against his and her stomach felt as though she was falling from a distance. Before Roslin could even register the movement she felt the back of her knees hit against the bed. With a gentle push from Robb she was falling backwards, landing on the soft feather down.

He remained standing and Roslin shifted on the bed, awkward in her naked state. She went to shield herself with an arm when Robb made a noise of protest. “You need not cover yourself, lady wife,” he told her, a wicked grin on his face. His features were different, somehow – perhaps it was the light of the fire, Roslin did not know – his cheekbones seemed sharper and his expression reminded her of nothing so much as a wolf. His eyes bore up and down her frame for a moment before he crawled forward to join her on the bed. She shivered in anticipation as she felt his skin slide over her own and gooseflesh rose on her skin as she felt something hard brush against her leg.

All thoughts and concerns left her as Robb began kissing her again, his tongue slipping past her lips. Roslin moaned softly at the intrusion as she returned it readily, heat running through her veins.

Robb pulled away from her after a moment but did not give her time to feel bereft at the loss for suddenly his mouth was everywhere – his teeth pulling gently at her earlobe, his tongue trailing hot and wet down her throat, his lips kissing and suckling at her nipples. It was almost too much, her senses afire in ways that she had never felt before. She kept her magic in check sharply, having no idea what would happen if it were to be freed while she was in such a state.

Roslin felt Robb’s lips on the inside of her thigh and her heartbeat kicked up a notch in her chest. “Robb, what –” Roslin managed to speak, voice rough before Robb interrupted her.

“Have you ever known a man before me?” he asked curiously, his voice light and cheerful as if commenting on the weather. Roslin let out an indignant sound as she propped herself up on her elbows. “Of course not!” she replied hotly, a small tendril of magic escaping her grasp and making the air around them crackle with energy, “How could –”

Roslin’s words stopped as she watched Robb’s head lower, his pink tongue escaping from his mouth and finding purchase in the slickness between her legs. She let out a quiet gasp at the sensation, her eyes going wide and never leaving those of her husband’s. Roslin felt him flick his tongue against her flesh and when he groaned, Roslin _felt_ the vibration even as she watched his gray-blue eyes close contently.

Roslin gripped the quilts beneath her tightly with both hands, unable to keep the sounds of her surprise and pleasure from escaping her in soft moans. She was suddenly very glad for the silencing charm she had had the foresight to cast. Roslin had never imagined anyone’s mouth where Robb’s was now – had it even happened _before_? she wondered – and was wholly unprepared for the onslaught of sensation. Her legs trembled, as if they wanted to move but Robb held them in a vice grip, unyielding to her squirming as he moved his tongue through her folds almost lazily. Every now and again the tip of his tongue would flick hard against the bundle of nerves at the top of them and Roslin could swear that it made stars burst behind her eyelids.

A sort of exquisite pressure had started to build in her lower tummy and she felt her entire body start to tighten and clench like a string being pulled too tight. Her hips bucked against his tongue of their own volition and Robb groaned, pulling her hips closer to repeat the motion again and again, a sweet rhythm that left Roslin gasping and moaning.

Slowly, something began to build inside of her and her eyes flew open, “Robb – Robb, wait, I think – “ the words came out disjointed and choppy like her thoughts were. Robb paid them no heed, beginning to lick in earnest, catching the sensitive spot each time he pulled her hips against his mouth.

Roslin cried out wildly, a sound that she hadn't even known existed inside of her. Her world grew smaller and smaller until nothing existed other than Robb’s tongue, creating a white-hot ball of _fire_ that grew and grew until she could think of nothing else, completely lost in –

She came suddenly, her entire body spasming and lifting as her cry pierced the air. Her body pulsed into an entire kaleidoscope of colors, her breath leaving her in a rush. She continued to tremble even as Robb pulled his mouth away from her, his mouth and chin glistening from his attentions. He looked at her hungrily, eyes never straying from her own as he made quick work of the strings that held his pants in place.

Roslin felt soft and pliant in the wake of whatever _that_ had been and watched Robb’s movements, unconcerned. She had just a glimpse of the length that stood hard and erect between his legs before he rejoined her on the bed, crawling his way until his face was level with her own and she felt it hard and solid between her thighs.

“Are you alright?” he asked as he peered at her face, though his voice sounded almost pained. She found herself charmed at his concern.

“Yes,” Roslin breathed, opening her legs wider for him. “Please, Robb…” his eyes flashed at her words and his teeth snapped together, as if fighting the urge to bite her. He took a deep breath before he spoke.

“I am told that this could be painful,” he told her, as if she didn’t already know that part. _My lord husband is a sweet one_ , Roslin found herself thinking languidly as he spoke. “I will try to be gentle,” he told her.

Roslin nodded, her arms reaching for his shoulders to steady her. She gasped as she felt him at her opening, groaning as his length began to slide inside of her. It was a strange sensation – a type of pressure that Roslin was unaccustomed to. He moved slowly until Roslin felt him encounter some sort of resistance inside her. “I’m sorry,” Robb murmured, his lips ghosting at the sensitive skin of her throat. He hesitated a moment before he pushed forward with one strong stroke, encasing himself inside of her up to the hilt.

Roslin yelped at the pain of the intrusion, her nails digging into his shoulders. It was almost drowned out by the sound of Robb’s groan of pleasure. He held still for a moment, his head falling into the curve of her shoulder, breathing heavily at the effort it took not to move.

There was a bit of pain and unfamiliar pressure but Roslin was so aroused that after a couple of moments she just wanted _more_. It was a burning sort of sensation but it felt _almost_ good, like a promise of something she didn’t yet know. Driven by instinct Roslin grinded her hips upwards against him, moaning as the motion caused the sensitive spot at the top of her folds to rub against his groin. The sound seemed to encourage her lord husband, who began moving slowly – very slowly – in and out of her. He groaned softly as he relaxed onto his elbows, using them to support his weight as he continued to move.

Slowly the pressure lessened and Roslin became aware of another sensation, a sort of shock that sparked every time he pushed inside of her. She began moving against him, moaning softly as she pulled her hips upward so that he would graze that spot every thrust. Roslin heard Robb growl low in his throat at her movement, so quiet that she only heard it due to his proximity to her ear. He began moving faster then, unable to hold back any longer for Roslin’s sake. Not that Roslin minded. The burning sensation was gone – in its wake left a clawing need that left her panting. She wanted to feel as she had when Robb had used his mouth on her, wanted that release that made her magic surge and dance under her skin.

“ _Robb_ ,” Roslin panted, soft and pleading as she squirmed under his long, quick strokes. “Oh, gods,” she groaned, long and low in her throat.

He seemed to know what she needed despite being unable to describe it, taking her impossibly harder and deeper, sending jolts of lightning into her belly and up her spine. Her arms wrapped around him, gripping at his back to find the purchase that allowed her to move against him, her hips matching his rhythm as if by instinct.

Robb groaned weakly and his thrusts became erratic, though somehow no less forceful. Roslin cried out again and clung to him, desperately trying to pull him closer – she _needed_ that feeling again and she was so _close_.

Robb cried out loudly as he slammed inside of her once more, stilling. Roslin thought she felt a rush of warmth between her legs but did not have time to consider it before she felt Robb’s teeth come down hard, biting her on the curve where her neck met her shoulder. Roslin moaned loudly – it _hurt_ , but combined with everything else it was just pleasurable enough to push her over edge. She clenched around the softening length inside of her, eyes rolling as she clawed his back in delicious agony.

When she came back into awareness, Robb had already rolled off of her and was laying in the space next to her body, still touching. His breath came in heavy bursts and Roslin felt similar, as though her lungs could not keep up with her body’s demand.

She glanced down at herself and saw that her both sides of her thighs were a sticky mess of pink and red stains, as was the sheet under her. She was slightly surprised – she had not expected quite so much blood, to be honest, but she also was annoyed that she had to leave such evidence for her lord father. Maiden’s blood was a rather potent potions ingredient, although the brews it was typically used in were a little bit on the dark side – still, it would have been nice to have. Inwardly she rolled her eyes at the whole situation but her thoughts were interrupted by Robb’s face appearing in her line of sight.

“Your neck – my lady, I’m so sorry – I don’t know what I was–” he sounded so contrite that Roslin had to smile. She brought her fingers up to her throat and winced; the flesh there _was_ rather tender, and she could feel the groove marks of each tooth. Still, it was nothing a quick poultice couldn’t fix, she was sure.

“You were quite – animalistic, weren’t you, my lord husband?” she teased, interrupting his bumbling apology with a sensual smile. As she looked at his face she noted that his eyes seemed to be back to normal – crystal clear blue, hiding an unfathomable depth. Briefly she wondered what that was about before she realized that Robb was looking at her with a new appreciation, an eyebrow raised.

“Perhaps you bring that out in me, lady wife,” he said in the same tone, kissing the side of her throat that he had bit languidly.

Roslin gasped lightly at the sensation, biting her bottom lip. “The thing that you did... _before_ ,” she hesitated, feeling herself blush. “How did you –? I mean, is it something –” she didn’t know how to word the question she wanted to ask but her voracious desire to know out won her embarrassment.

“Is it something they teach us northron men?” Robb cut her off, smiling wickedly as he rolled half on top of her, eyes straying to her breasts. “Do our maesters teach us such things just as your septa teaches you embroidery?” he teased.

Roslin blushed deeper, swatting at his shoulder, “I will turn your hair green,” she threatened, but all Robb did was grin. He continued to kiss at her throat, nuzzling her lightly. She felt him shrug a bit as he kissed the length of her jaw.

“I’d never done _that_ before,” he admitted, and Roslin felt rush of warmth in her chest at his words. “I don’t really even know why I did it,” he continued, and Roslin’s heart started racing in her chest as she felt him hardening against her thigh once more. “I just knew I had to taste you,” his voice was almost a growl, and he nipped lightly at the lobe of her ear.

She sucked in a breath, her thighs rubbing together unconsciously. “Do you hurt, my lady? Sore?” Robb asked, courteous even as his tongue traveled down her throat and chest until his mouth reached her nipple, sucking gently.

Roslin moaned, and it felt as if she awakened again, just as hungry as before. _Yes, a bit_ , she thought, even as she felt her legs opening again, “No,” she told him, her voice rough.

He took her again, before her maiden’s blood had even dried on her thighs.

**. … .**

 

Dawn was fast approaching as he finally rolled off of her, his arms grabbing for her and pulling her close to his chest. They were both sweaty and physically exhausted and both knew that they only had a few hours minimum before first light. Part of Roslin craved sleep but she felt oddly energized – plus, she definitely wanted to bathe before they headed out.

She felt Robb’s hand tangle into her hair, running his fingers against her scalp as he sighed contently. They were silent for a moment, and Roslin reflected that everything seemed brighter and she had never felt more alive.

“Roslin,” Robb started reluctantly, and Roslin immediately lifted her head at the tone of his voice. Just what could he have to say, sounding like that? “Traveling will be difficult. It’s not for leisure,” he warned her, sounding regretful. “It is a war campaign. Are you sure you would not rather remain here, comfortable and safe in the house of your father?” he asked her and Roslin’s heart plummeted right into her stomach.

“No,” she said at once, her tone forceful as she lifted from his chest and looking him straight in the eye. “I will not stay here, Robb,” she told him. “I will not be a burden on campaign. I might not be able to wield a blade but that does not make me useless. I can help you,” she said resolutely, her eyes wide. Would he really leave her behind after tonight? “You need an heir. How can we do that if I am not with you?” she asked, grabbing onto the one card she knew she had as befit her station.

“That might have already been accomplished my lady,” he said, with a self-satisfied grin. Roslin fought not to blush, instead dawning a hopefully seductive look despite the fear that still held her in its grasp.

“I think not, my lord,” she said with mock-seriousness. “I think we need to try more. Many, many times more,” she nodded.

Robb laughed, pulling her close once again. “If you’re sure,” he said, with a yawn, completely relaxed. Roslin let out a sigh, relaxing as well.

She had never been more sure of anything in her life.


End file.
